


An Avvar Love Story: ABDUCTION

by Mikkeneko



Series: AN AVVAR LOVE STORY [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abduction, Anders friendships with the companions is so important to me, Avvar customs, Avvar!Hawke, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hawke being supportive to Anders is so important to me, Humor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, People acknowledging Justice's personhood is so important to me, a lot of things are important to me gosh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's made up his mind to tie the knot with Anders. And with Avvar marriage customs being what they are, that's not just a metaphor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Avvar Love Story: ABDUCTION

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to fit into a sort of loose fic-verse featuring [Avvar](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Avvar) Hawke, whose father Malcolm Hawke was a pure Avvar from the Frostbacks who ran away with Leandra Amell and brought his children up in the same tradition. 
> 
> Just as a brief rundown, the salient points of the Avvar culture here are 1) they are far more comfortable with spirits and spirit possession than the Andrasteans are, each clan having its own guardian spirit and even going so far as to have a tradition of ‘spirit teachers,’ in which category Hawke regards Justice’s relationship to Anders. 2) Avvar marriage customs involve the groom 'kidnapping’ a chosen bride from her holdfast, although in practice he usually runs it by the bride’s father first to make sure everyone involved is on board, since an aspiring groom who fails to steal the bride successfully can expect a thorough ass-kicking by the rest of her clan.

Anders was getting a bad feeling about this.

It was getting late and there was still no sign of Hawke. The pretext on which Varric had lured him up to the Hanged Man – ostensibly, checking in with him to make sure that the Coterie hadn’t been harassing him again – was a flimsy one, since Varric had more contacts in Lowtown and Darktown than Anders had patients. Anders had told him everything he knew on the matter in ten minutes, but it had been hours and the others kept finding excuses not to let him leave.

He ought to just go back to his clinic. He knew that, and on a couple of occasions he’d started to make his excuses to leave, but each time one of the others had come up with an excuse to distract him and keep him there. A round of Wicked Grace with Isabela, a fascinating discussion on Keeper magic with Merrill, or Varric suddenly coming up with a twinge in his knee that just wasn’t getting better, and could Blondie have a look at it, just as a favor to him?

They were up to something.

Whatever the secret was, they were clearly all in on it; Merrill was nearly bursting at the seams with excitement, wriggling in her seat and giggling every time she looked in Anders’ direction. Isabela, more worryingly, was actually sober for a change – she kept watching Anders with a weighing, serious look in her eyes that unnerved him. He’d made a weak joke about whether she was calculating up his bounty for turning him over to the Templars, which had gone over like a lead firework.

And Varric kept trying to get him drunk. Varric ought to _know_ better. There were still scraps of bronze dust littering the Chantry courtyard from the last time Justice had indulged on ‘mortal poisons.’ Varric kept insisting that tonight was a special occasion, yet refused to say what the occasion _was_. “Just a toast, Blondie,” Varric had coaxed him. “One or two won’t hurt. You’ve got to keep your tolerance up, you know!”

His friends had been acting strangely ever since his latest blackout. Anders didn’t like calling it that, even to himself, but he didn’t really have any other word for it. Most of the time, Justice could listen in, occasionally making his opinion on the matter known, lend strength and mana when needed. But when he took control of their shared body, Anders couldn’t return the favor; he knew nothing until it was over.

Usually, his friends were happy to fill him in on whatever he’d missed (usually, nothing more interesting than a tedious amount of fighting.) Hawke was especially good about this, understanding on a level that none of the others could the challenges inherent in sharing your body with another, inhuman presence. His casual acceptance and unexpected advice – Avvar spirituality, passed down to Hawke by his father – had gone a long way towards easing the integration of Anders and Justice together, turning their shared life from a torment into something almost… comfortable.

But Hawke wasn’t here, and nobody else seemed to want to tell him what had happened. Every time he asked, they looked shifty and changed the subject. Anders would have been certain they’d done something terrible, except for the way Merrill kept grinning like a sunrise every time the topic came up.

Then again, knowing Merrill, that didn’t _necessarily_ let out something shocking.

“Marriage customs in different societies are just so _fascinating_ , aren’t they?” Merrill blurted out, in an apparent non-sequitur. The next moment she jumped in her seat. “Ow!”

“Sorry about that, kitten,” Isabela said insincerely, sliding a bit lower in her chair. “My foot slipped.”

“Why do you say that?” Anders asked Merrill.

“What she means, Blondie,” Varric insinuated himself into the conversation, “is that Daisy’s been learning all about the ways the customs of the city elves are different from the Dalish, as part of her effort to adapt to life in Kirkwall, and different marriage customs are an important part of that. Isn’t that right, Daisy?”

“Uh… right,” Merrill said, sounding somewhat confused. “Yes, yes that’s what I meant.”

“Elven marriages are mostly arranged by the parents, aren’t they?” Anders said. “I’ve read a little bit about that.”

“I think that’s common in most parts of the world,” Isabela said, examining her fingernails. “As part of managing property and inheritance. Of course, just because the parents strike a bargain doesn’t mean the participants necessarily have to uphold it.”

“Dishonoring a sworn bargain?” Varric complained playfully, touching a hand to his chest and spreading open his palm. “You’re killing me here, Rivaini. Right in the heart.”

“Funny, that’s what my first husband said,” Isabela purred.

“How do they do it in the Circles?” Merrill asked curiously, and Anders felt his stomach plummet into his shoes. “I mean, I guess the parents aren’t there – do the First Enchanters arrange things? Do they perform the rituals? Ah – Isabela, your foot is slipping again. Repeatedly. Ow!”

Varric cleared his throat loudly, but apparently even his diplomacy was at a loss to paper over this faux pas. Anders frowned down at the tabletop, tracing his finger over a knot in the wood grain. “Mages in the Circles don’t marry,” he muttered. “It’s not permitted.”

“What, ever?” Merrill’s green eyes were wide. “That sounds so lonely!”

“Not ever.” To hell with Justice; Anders knocked back his drink. “Even affairs are pretty sternly frowned on, although how strictly that’s… enforced, I suppose depends on the whims of the Knight-Commander.” He grimaced, as much at memory as at the bitter taste of the whiskey.

“But if there are no marriages, then how do you raise children?” Merrill said, bewildered.

“We don’t. Children aren’t permitted, either. They’re taken away from the mother the moment they’re born.” Anders’ mouth twisted. “I always thought that it was part of a plan to keep us from caring too much about any other person. After all, if you’ve got nothing to care about, then you’ve got no reason to fight for a better life, now do you? No children, no future.”

“You had to get him started,” Isabela said to Merrill sotto voce.

Merrill frowned at Isabela. “But that’s awful!” she said.

“Yes.”

And that wasn’t just his voice. The conversation hiccuped, momentarily, as the reverberations echoed around the room and then died. Anders pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, pushing back against the headache.

“But… you’re out of the Circle now, aren’t you?” Merrill said tentatively. “So you _could_ get married now. If you wanted to.”

Anders sighed, and decided not to sour the mood further by explaining to Merrill just all the non-Circle complicating factors that would, in all likelihood, make that impossible; not just as a mage but as a Grey Warden, an abomination… a _spirit friend,_ Hawke would have insisted firmly on the terminology, and as a revolutionary. “Yes, I suppose so. In theory.”

That cheered Merrill right back up again. “Good!” she exclaimed. “Great. That’s perfect.”

Before Anders could ask her what it was perfect for, there was the sound of a commotion coming from downstairs, in the main room of the tavern. Time for the evening brawl, Anders figured. Isabela sat up alertly, every muscle tense; if she’d been a cat, her ears would have been pricked and her tail lashing.

The commotion came closer, spilling up onto the stairs, and Anders saw Varric gently urging Merrill to scoot her chair back closer to the wall. Isabela slid out of her seat, her daggers appearing like magic in her hands. “Time to get this party started,” she murmured.

“Isabela, what’s going on?” Anders demanded. “Are you in trouble? Is it Castillon again?”

“Aw, don’t worry your pretty head about me, sweet thing,” Isabela cooed as she flexed her hands around her daggers. “Mama Isabela’s got this covered.”

Anders couldn’t help the thought that if so, it was pretty much the only thing she had covered, but decided it would be rude to say so aloud. Before he could question further, though, there was a tremendous crash on the landing outside of Varric’s suite, and the door burst inwards.

Burst was the word for it; a powerful roundhouse kick send it crashing off the hinges, tearing long wooden splinters from the doorframe. The door bounced off the wall and skidded away, revealing Hawke in the empty frame. He was in full armor, war knives in hand – no blood on them, thankfully, not yet – with what Anders recognized as full Avvar war paint on his face, neck, and arms. He looked _magnificent_ – Anders felt his heart stutter a beat, then speed up as though he were already in combat.

"My door!" Varric wailed, but Hawke ignored him.

“I am Garrett ar Leandra o Hawkeshold,” he announced in a ringing voice, as he strode into the room. “And I have come for my heart!”

“It’s not yours yet,” Isabela said, smirking at him and bouncing on her toes. “Come and claim it if you can, Hawke – _if_ you think you’re up for it.”

Hawke gave her a pained look. “That’s _not_ what you say, Isabela,” he reproached.

“It’s what _I_ say,” Isabela replied dryly. “Now are we going to fight, or not?”

Apparently they were, because Hawke leaped forward with a piercing war cry, and the two rogues met in a clash of steel. They moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow, darting, leaping and spinning in a blur of dark and light. Curved steel flashed in the candlelight, but the weapons moved too quickly to see more than a blur; Anders could only track them by sound, the ring and ear-shuddering scrape of edge on edge.

Anders was on his feet, wavering on the edge of indecision; only his bewilderment held him back. His first impulse was to leap into the fray, casting haste and barrier and healing auras, but he wasn’t honestly sure which of them he was supposed to be supporting.

The familiar sound of Hawke’s battle-breathing, harsh growls and grunts, suddenly transmuted into a high-pitched yelp, and Hawke stumbled backwards, holding his jaw and spitting blood. “Oh, 'Bela, that was dirty!” he accused.

“Have you _met_ me?” Isabela demanded.

She jumped back into the fray, pushing her momentary advantage, and Anders made up his mind: he couldn’t just let the two of them kill each other. He raised one hand, channeling the Fade, until Varric reached up and caught his wrist. “Nuh-uh, Blondie,” he said. “Let them fight it out. This is a matter of honor.”

“Varric, what is going on here?” he asked pleadingly. “Whose honor?”

“Well… yours, technically,” Varric admitted. “There was some talk about having Hawke fight Justice instead, but we all agreed that might be a bit much. So Isabela agreed to stand up for you instead.” He grinned. “Honestly I think Isabela was just looking forward to a chance to kick Hawke’s ass. Me, I would have offered, but I’d much rather watch.”

“Oh, come on!” Varric shouted, as the angry whirlwind of steel and leather crashed into another table, knocking one of the table legs askew and crushing one of the chairs. “First my door, now my furniture? The bill is going to your house, Hawke!”

Anders watched Isabela and Hawke fight, his heart in his mouth. The two rogues might have been only playing, but Isabela played _rough._ At last, though, it was over - Hawke blurred in a feint and Isabela dodged the wrong direction. In an instant he was behind her, kicking her knees out and wrapping an arm around her throat. “Ha!” he crowed, pressing the tip of his blade just lightly to her cheek, below her eye. “I am victorious!”

Isabela rolled her eyes, being very careful not to move an inch. “Yes, yes, you’re as astonishing as ever,” she said airily. “Just don’t tell anyone I went easy on you.”

“And ruin my victory? Never.” Hawke lifted his blade and stepped back, moving cautiously, as though uncertain as to whether she’d take the opportunity to turn the tables on him again. But Isabela only smiled at him and flapped her hand.

“Well, go on then,” she said.

Hawke grinned – a ferocious expression, between the Avvar war paint striping his face and the blood streaming down his chin from a lacerated lip and bloody nose. He turned and strode over to where Anders was watching from the sidelines, eyes wide and throat dry.

“So do you want me to take ca –” Anders started to say, raising a hand to channel a healing spell, but he never got to finish the sentence; Hawke swept him into his arms, knocking him off-balance with one arm and catching him in the crook of the other, and kissed him.

“Whaaammmmph!” Anders protested, although it was thoroughly drowned out by the cheering (and hooting) of their friends. He flailed a bit for balance, managed to get a secure hold on Hawke’s shoulders, and kissed him back. Blood or not, Hawke always tasted intoxicating.

They were both out of breath by the time Hawke broke it off, flushed and grinning. He looked like a boy under the mask of warpaint and blood. Anders himself felt like he was glowing bright crimson for all the world to see, and cleared his throat twice before he could manage to speak. “So, uh,” he said. “You were looking to impress me, then? I’d say you succeeded, although it wasn’t really necessary.”

“Oh, it was,” Hawke said seriously, and let go of Anders with one arm to rummage around in his satchel with the other. With a triumphant “hah!” he produced a long coil of smooth rope. In a flash, before Anders could get the breath to protest or at least ask what in the Void he was doing, he had it wrapped twice around Anders’ wrists.

Anders squeaked, and his blush went up another notch. “Hawke, everybody is watching,” he hissed, embarrassed. “Don’t you think we should talk about – aauugh!”

Hawke ducked down, put his shoulder against Anders stomach, and pulled; the breath _whooshed_ from Anders’ lungs as the world turned upside down. He found himself blinking, astonished, at the sight of the dusty floor beyond Hawke’s legs, a few feet away; he was slung upside down over the rogue’s shoulder, one arm cradling him and steadying him close. “Hawke, what are you doing!” he demanded, pounding on his hip with his doubled hands.

After a few moments, he stopped struggling and twisted around to look at his friends appealingly. “Isn’t anyone going to help me here?” he pleaded.

Merrill was convulsed with giggling, and Varric was laughing almost as hard. “Sorry, Blondie,” he said. “Your champion was Isabela, and she lost, so you’re on your own.”

“He’s not,” Hawke said, his arm tightening over Anders. “Never again.”

That made Anders’ breath catch, and his heart clench, so his wriggling stilled for just a moment – at least until Hawke turned, took three long steps, and jumped out the window.

Anders _might_ have screamed like a little girl on the way down, not that he was going to admit it later.

* * *

Hawke carried Anders all the way back to Hightown, and Anders wavered between being annoyed and impressed by Hawke’s upper body strength. He was warm, warm enough for Anders to feel his heat scorching through his heavy coat, and smelled like blood and sweat and paint. He was also, despite the awkwardness of the position, in an excellent position to admire Hawke’s ass through his leather trousers.

Anders had given up on complaining or demanding, either to be put down or for Hawke to explain himself, since neither had borne fruit yet. (“Hawke, put me down! An Avvar barbarian carrying an apostate over his shoulder is going to make a scene! People are staring.” “This is Kirkwall, they’ve seen worse.”) Besides, it was difficult to talk with Garrett's shoulder constantly jabbing into his diaphragm. He had determined early on that there was going to be no way to squirm out of Hawke’s hold that didn’t result in him landing on his face on the pavement, so he had resigned himself to going along with it.

He spent most of the trip, belly-down over Hawke’s shoulder, trying to figure out why Justice was not taking exception to this mishandling. Not that Anders minded a little mishandling – at least by the right people – but Justice usually had absolutely no sense of nuance to anything he perceived as a threat. If nothing else, the stomach-plummeting drop from the second story of the Hanged Man ought to have brought him out in a fury; instead, he was quiet and calm in the back of Anders’ mind, even under Anders’ wordless prodding for an explanation. Instead of worried or outraged, Justice seemed… pleased? Smug? Satisfied.

If only Anders shared his certainty.

Hawke and Justice must have planned this out beforehand – Anders felt the usual pang of jealousy, that Hawke could talk to Justice so easily when _he_ couldn’t, not any more. This must account for the missing time, the hours that nobody wanted to tell him about – they’d all been in on it, conspiring together. If only Anders had any idea what the conspiracy was _for_. Only the fact that Justice was willing to cooperate kept Anders from working himself into a panic – Justice wouldn’t let him be hurt or humiliated, not even by his friends.

But that still meant that as soon as they got where they were going, Hawke was going to have some serious explaining to do.

'Where they were going’ turned out to be the Amell estate, unsurprisingly – the house was dark and quiet when Hawke let himself in the front door, no sign of Orana or the Feddic family. Hawke closed the door carefully behind them, then shifted his weight and leaned, setting Anders back down on his feet.

Anders opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but something in Hawke’s expression stopped him; under the paint and the cocky grin, there was something… vulnerable, something hopeful and scared. “Come on,” Hawke said softly, taking him by the cord still wrapped around his hands and tugging.

He led Anders up the stairs, into a room in the back – next to Hawke’s own bedroom, which Anders knew well, into another room he’d never seen. It was scraped bare and scrubbed clean, wide and empty except for the large fireplace in the back, a huge and heavy fur rug in front of it, and an array of materials piled on the rug. Stones, wood, coal, tinder, colored cord… Anders couldn’t even identify them all at a glance, let alone guess what they were for.

“Ta-da!” Hawke presented it with a flourish, nervous and expectant. Anders took a step into the room, then slowly turned around, shaking his head.

“What is this, Hawke?” he asked.

Hawke looked away, studying the floor by his feet nervously as he explained, “It’s for you. It’s your hearth. This will be yours, this whole house will be yours once you claim ownership of it. If… if you want it.”

“Is… is this an Avvar thing?” Anders asked hesitantly. It seemed a fair bet, between Hawke’s clothing and decoration and the strange wildness of the whole experience, but Anders didn’t know as much about the Avvar as he should – back in the Circle he’d not cared, and once he came to Kirkwall and had learned reason to care, the books and scrolls of the Circle were worlds away. All he knew, he knew from things Hawke and Varric had explained – but none of them had covered kidnappings.

“Yes.” Hawke took a deep breath. “My father taught it to me. When a warrior of the Avvar finds a… a person they want to make a home with, they must first prove their strength to her – to the other’s clan. They have to sneak into the other’s hold, fight their way past their clan-brothers, and steal them away. Then, they take their chosen br… partner to a new hold, which will be theirs together. If sh – if they accept, then they build a hearth and light it, and it’s done.”

Anders wasn’t very learned about the Avvar, but he wasn’t stupid; he caught the barely edited words for 'she, her, bride’ and the pieces began to slowly fall into place. The shape they made was wonderful – and terrible. “What is this, Hawke?” he asked again, barely a whisper.

He saw Hawke’s throat move as he swallowed, and his voice was unsteady. “This is – the Avvar marriage ceremony,” he said in a rush. “I love you, Anders, and I want it to be right. I want to do everything right with you. I want you to stay with me, and build a hold with me. I finally have a house of my own, a life of my own, but what is that worth without you to share it with me?”

For a moment, Anders’ heart swelled, and he felt like he was floating, soaring. He opened his mouth and took a breath to say 'yes’ but –

But then the moment passed, and reality came crashing back down, crushing him, crushing the fleeting moment of hope. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It was one thing to love Hawke, to follow him and flirt with him and share his body with him – but that was all he could share. He wasn’t fit to share a home, or a life. He was a dead man walking, had been ever since he’d taken the Joining; coming to Kirkwall had just sped up the clock. The Gallows loomed always in his mind, oppressive, unbearable. He had to break that vision, even if he knew well it might cost him his life to do so. He had a mission, and the mission owned all that he could be. For an hour, for a day, for a month he could put it aside and pretend it wasn’t so; but for a lifetime?

He couldn’t. And he couldn’t promise what he couldn’t give.

“I can’t.” The first two words were scratchy and rough, and his throat only filled in more the longer he tried to talk. “I’m so sorry, Hawke. Maker, you don’t know how much I want it… how much I want you. You don’t know how much it means to me that you – that you chose _me_.” To be chosen. To be wanted. To be worth it. That was all he had ever dreamed of, back then. And now it was being offered up to him on a silver platter, and he couldn’t take it. Fate had a horrible sense of humor. “But I can’t.”

Hawke grabbed Anders’ arms, pulling him around to look him in the face. The designs stood out in stark contrast to his skin, suddenly, pale and bloodless under the paint. “Why?” he begged. “Anders, please – please tell me why. If it’s about Justice – you know I don’t care, I understand, I’ve talked to him about –”

Anders shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that – I can’t promise you forever. You deserve that, but I can’t. My – line of work is dangerous, you know that. Even more dangerous than just being a mage in Kirkwall. Sooner or later I’ll… I’ll have to leave.” He wanted to be true to Hawke, to be honest, but some truths were just too cruel. “And I can’t ask you to come with me when that happens. I can’t give you always, Hawke. I don’t have it myself.”

Hawke let his breath out slowly, in a sigh. He slid his hands down Anders’ arms until he cupped the mage’s still-bound hands between his own. “Anders,” he said, and licked his lips. “Do you know what… what the knots in the rope mean?”

Bewildered, Anders shook his head.

“They’re part of the ritual, too. When the hearth is lit, the bride and the groom are supposed to kneel on a rug before it – then she sings a song, a hymn, while the groom tries to undo the knots. However many he manages to get through before the song ends, that’s how many years the marriage lasts. At the end of it, the couple can choose to go their separate ways – or they can choose each other, again and again.

"The Avvar don’t deal in 'always,’ Anders. Everything ends – seasons, lives, marriages, and songs. What matters is how you live your life in the meantime. However many years you are here, I want to be with you. I don’t care whether or not it’s forever. If I walk out of this house tomorrow and keel over from a heart attack, it would still be worth it for tonight.”

Anders couldn’t find any words for that. Instead, he leaned into Hawke, a blurry outline now against the tears, and kissed him.

Hawke’s arms went around him with a shaky gasp, hugging him tight. Anders tried to slide his arms around Hawke in turn, but with his wrists still tied in front of him, it was impossible; he raised his hands to Hawke’s face instead and cupped his jaw, rubbing his thumbs against the bristle of his skin as he kissed him. This kiss was different from the one at the Hanged Man, where Hawke had been high on excitement, victory and anticipation. This was softer, sweeter, a brush and touch of tongue against teeth, an open-mouthed sharing of breath. This was something closer to holy.

At last Anders pulled back, and tried to wipe the tears off his face with his bound hands. Hawke helpfully leaned in and ran his thumb over Anders’ cheekbones, dashing the moisture away. “So that’s a yes, right?” Hawke said hopefully, broken.

Anders laughed through the last of his tears. “Yes, that’s a yes. Maker, Hawke, how do you always know just what to say?”

Hawke’s face broke out in a huge bright grin. “I can’t help it if I’m brilliant as well as handsome,” he said, the relief clear in his laughter.

“Yes, you’re such a catch,” Anders said dryly. “Now come on. This hearth I’m supposed to build – how does one go about that, exactly? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything quite like this before.”

Hawke huffed out something that sounded like “I should _hope_ not” before he led the way over the the bare fireplace.

It didn’t take long, and soon the hearth was built, a little house of stone for the fire to live in. Anders took a deep breath, and lit it with a spell from his hand before he thought to ask it maybe it was inappropriate. Well, if magefire was good enough to light the fires in Andraste’s chapel, it should be good enough for this, he consoled himself. Hawke didn’t seem to mind. Hawke was grinning too hard to look like he would ever mind anything ever again.

“And now?” Anders said, his heart lumping in his throat. It wasn’t as though he and Hawke had never had sex before, but this… this was different. More. _Better._

Hawke guided him to kneel on the rug, the crackling fire growing in light and heat beside them. “Now comes the fun part,” he said wryly. “I get to undo the knots, and you sing. It can be any song you like… usually a hymn to the Lady of the Skies, but I don’t imagine you know any of those. Also, not a lady.”

“It can be any song?” Anders said with a frown.

“Short or long, it’s your choice,” he said, trying to sound casual about it. A flash of nervousness peaked through, however, as he tugged at the length of knotted cord. “Though I’m just saying, I’d appreciate long. These knots are going to be a bloody pain in the neck.”

“Oh, are those Isabela’s knots?” Anders peered forward, only noticing the ropework for the first time (in his defense, he’d had other things to worry about while being hauled upside-down through Hightown.) “She does know her way around a rope, for certain.”

Hawke sputtered. “I’m not even going to ask where you’ve had a chance to see Isabela’s knotwork up close before,” he said, and Anders smirked. “She wouldn’t let me tie my own. Said I’d put in a hundred slipknots and pull them all loose before you got through a single chorus, and that you deserved better.”

Anders laughed. “Remind me to thank her,” he said, and then stopped to reconsider the evening. Clan-brothers, Hawke had said; and apparently Isabela had volunteered to stand in. “For a lot of things, actually.”

He settled down on the ludicrously plush fur, clearing his throat and trying to clear his mind. Honestly, Anders didn’t _know_ very many songs. Musical theory was not really a focus of study at the Circle. He’d learned several very dirty pub songs in his time at Vigil’s Keep, courtesy of Oghren, but that didn’t seem right. Not for something as important to Hawke as this clearly was. _Besides, they’re all short._

“Would you mind if…” he said hesitantly. “Would it be okay if I sang something from the Chant? I mean, I know it’s not exactly right for an Avvar ritual but…”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “Of course, if you want to,” he said quickly. “I mean, you’re not Avvar, so it should be something that means something to you.”

“Okay.” Anders closed his eyes for a moment, going over the verses in his head. _O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights. O Maker, know my heart; take from me a life of sorrow; lift me from a world of pain_ …

He took a breath, raised his voice, and began to sing.

For years afterwards, Anders would always vividly remember that night: kneeling on the fur with Hawke in front of him, head bent, the tips of his fingers brushing through dark hair as Hawke worked studiously away at the cord.

Hawke had gotten through exactly three knots before Anders’ voice cracked.

* * *

 

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> The verse Anders sings is from Transfigurations 12 of the [Chant of Light.](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses)
> 
>  **This story now has art!** The shot of Hawke in full war paint busting down the door, and Anders' reaction, has been immortalized in ink thanks to Skasha:
> 
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> 


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